The Dead Tracks

    'Five-star service.'

    'Good.' He looked again at the door. 'I'm not going to take up much of your time here. I just need to ask you a few questions.'

    'Your pals just asked me a few questions.'

    'I know,' he said. 'Luckily for you, I've got some more.'

    'Why?'

    'Why what?'

    'Why are you here?'

    'Like I said, I've got a few quest-'

    'I know what you said.'

    He paused, a serious expression settling across his face. Then a smile cracked; he wasn't amused, he was just trying to tell me he was a reasonable guy. 'Are you playing hardball, Mr Raker? Is that it?'

    'Where's Phillips?'

    'Never mind about Phillips.'

    'You two don't get on?'

    He pushed his coffee aside and reached into his back pocket. Took out his warrant card and laid it down in front of me. Next to a picture of a younger version of him it said DETECTIVE SERGEANT COLM HEALY.

    'I worked on the Megan Carver case,' he said, and glanced towards the door again. 'So I'd like you to answer a few questions for me. That way we can stop messing around and get on with the business of finding her.' He smiled his best shit-eating grin. 'Is that okay with you?'

    'I've already told Phillips everything I know.'

    He sighed. 'I'm going to level with you, Mr Raker. Me and Phillips…' He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'We don't get on. If I have to spend more than a couple of minutes in his company, I want to put my fist through a bloody wall. He rubs me up the wrong way. He rubs a lot of people up the wrong way here. The guy's got a rod up his arse.'

    'At least we agree on something.'

    'Do you think Megan Carver is still alive?'

    I looked at him. There had been a tremor of desperation in his voice. I leaned in even closer to him and this time I could smell the aftershave on the collar of his shirt and the coffee on his breath.

    'Mr Raker?'

    'I don't know.'

    His eyes narrowed. You don't know — or you won't tell?'

    'I don't know.'

    He glanced towards the door again. 'We might be able to help each other here.'

    'How?'

    'You scratch my balls, I scratch yours.'

    I smiled. I didn't particularly want any man scratching my balls, but I was intrigued by what his play might be. Five minutes after Phillips warns me off my case, another cop turns up and tells me he can help me if we meet halfway.

    'So… you want to dance?' he asked.

    I didn't reply.

    Healy's eyes narrowed again, like he'd second-guessed me. 'That's disappointing' He stood. 'I could have helped you.'

    'I don't even know you.'

    'You don't need to,' he said. 'We don't have to move in together. You tell me what you know, I tell you what I know. After that, we go our separate ways.'

    'Why?'

    'I already told you why.'

    'No, you didn't. You told me you worked the Carver case, but we both know that's not true.' I nodded towards the pad wedging open the door. We both know you're not supposed to be here.'

    We looked at each other; a face-off. After a while, he shrugged again, and made a move for the door. Give him something. See what his angle is.

    'Wait a sec.'

    He turned back to me. I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the folded-up printout of the man from Tiko's. I placed it down on the table, turning it so Healy could see. 'You want to help me?'

    He stepped back in towards the table. Nodded.

    'Tell me who this is.'

    He picked up the photograph, his eyes moving from left to right, taking in as much of the face, and the scene around it, as possible. There wasn't a lot else to see but the features of the man. I'd cropped it in as close to his head as I could get. Kaitlin had recognized the surroundings as Tiko's. Healy wouldn't.

    'What's this?' he said.

    You didn't come across him during the Carver investigation?'

    His eyes flicked to me. Frowned. 'Now why would I have done that?'

    A weird answer. I leaned back in my seat.

    'I don't know,' I said.' Why would you?'

    'Do you know who he is?'

    'No. Do you?'

    He didn't answer.

    'Do you?'

    He placed the picture back down on the desk. 'You want my advice, David?' he said, ignoring my question and calling me by my first name now.

    'Not really.'

    'Well, I'm gonna give it to you.' He picked up his coffee cup for the final time, and nodded at the picture. You want to spend less time with your nose in the history books, and more time trying to find out where the hell Megan Carver is.'

    'What are you talking about?'

    'This prick,' he said, pressing a finger to the face of the man in the photo. 'How's he going to help you?'

    'What do you mean?'

    He looked at me, like he couldn't decide if I was joking or not. 'What do you think I mean? Your guy in the picture there — how's he going to help find Megan when he's been buried in the fucking ground for a hundred years?'

Chapter Twenty

    I stared at Healy across the interview room. 'What are you talking about?'

    He glanced at the door, then back to the photo on the desk in front of me. 'You ever heard of Milton Sykes?'

    I frowned. 'The serial killer?'

    'Right. Old school. Kidnapped and killed thirteen women just over a hundred years ago and buried them so well no one's ever been able to find them. Sat there happily admitting he'd taken them, but wouldn't tell the police where he put the bodies. Probably thought he was Jack the Ripper — all smoke and mirrors and mystery — but all he really was, was a fucking arsehole.'

    I glanced at the photo. 'So?'

    'So if someone's given that to you, they're taking the piss.'

    'It's not Milton Sykes.'

    'It looks exactly like him.'

    'It's not Sykes.'